


two wonders as one vow

by impertinency



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Awkward First Times, Canon Compliant, F/M, Loss of Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-16 18:04:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/864994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impertinency/pseuds/impertinency
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jeyne is fifteen when she marries a king of winter and ice who makes her a crown to match his own, who promises to show her his ancestral home once the war is done. And she is fifteen when she marries  that same boy who smiles at her with love in his eyes and touches her as though she’s the most precious thing in the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	two wonders as one vow

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Robb Stark Week](http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/robb-stark-week) on tumblr. Title from a passage in Auden's _The Sea and the Mirror_ , which is also quoted below.

_Inherit me, my cause, as I would cause you now_   
_With mine your sudden joy, two wonders as one vow_   
_Pre-empting all, here, there, for ever, long ago._   
  
_I would smile at no other promise than touch, taste, sight_   
_Were there not, my enough, my exaltation, to bless_   
_As world is offered world, as I hear it to-night._

 

 

The war starts halfway through her fourteenth year. 

Rumors and gossip and idle chatter finds its way through the old, broken down corridors of the castle. She hears snippets of stories about men who turn into wolves and women who can kill with nothing but fire and smoke. Gruesome, horrid stories that the maids and cooks and stable boys discuss in secret.

 _Those Northerners are more beasts than men_ , they say. _They have the blood of the First Men and old gods in their veins. It makes them turn into wolves at nightfall, helps them slaughter their enemies by the thousands, lets them feast on the blood and guts of their corpses._

Jeyne doesn’t believe the rumors, thinks of them as nothing more than lines that are better suited in an old song than in reality. To her, the war is nothing more than scraps of papers that arrive with each new raven, nothing more than the whispers her mother and uncle share when they think she can’t hear.

 

*

 

(Once, when she was seven, she begged her septa to teach her all the love songs she knew. Devoured anything she could find written about knights and ladies, kings and queens, true love and forbidden romances.

Jeyne had memorized the words, held them close to her heart, dreamt about them at night.

 _You’ve the gentle heart of a romantic_ , her mother had said, her tone resigned. _We live in a cruel world, child. Hearts like yours do not last long._ )

 

*

 

Jeyne’s been told that she has a gentle heart and pretty face, a sweet voice and a kind soul. That these are her best traits, that they’ll bring her happiness in her future marriage.

But now, as men storm the walls of her family’s castle, she doesn’t know how those traits will help her. _What use is a pretty face and gentle heart against swords and spears and arrows_ , she wonders. _A song won’t save my life._

Outside, the air thunders with the beat of war drums and the clash of swords. The moans and screams of the wounded and dying pierce the air, send a chill down her spine and make her skin crawl with fear. Suddenly, the war is something real, something that’s no longer just faded words on paper, no longer about people she doesn’t know and locations she’s never visited.

Somewhere, a wolf howls and Jeyne clutches her younger sister and brother tight as she closes her eyes and prays to the Seven to fill her with strength.

 

*

 

Her mother doesn’t allow her leave her chambers for two days. The castle has been captured - Jeyne knows that much, at least - but she’s been barricaded in her rooms with only her sister and brother for company. 

She begs the maid who brings supper for any scrap of news, but the girl looks as frightened as Jeyne feels. _They’re horrible men_ , she tells her, hands shaking as she sets down a tray. _They rape and pillage and murder, and their king keeps a horrible beast by his side._

She dares to peek out the window once, sees a flash of red hair and the shape of a wolf, and it makes her heart twist and her pulse pound, and she slinks away, terrified and unsure. 

That night she dreams of a king with cruel eyes, of a large grey beast whose teeth are sharp against her skin. 

 

*

 

“The Stark boy has caught a fever,” her mother informs her. She doesn’t call him a king, calls him _boy_ as though it’s an insult. 

She pauses for a long moment, looks at Jeyne in a way that makes her shift uncomfortably. “Be careful around these Northerners, Jeyne. They can’t be trusted.”

Jeyne makes a wordless noise of agreement, doesn’t realize she’s trembling until her mother brushes cool fingertips across her cheek. 

_I do not have a brave heart_ , she thinks as a trickle of unease unfurls deep in her chest. 

 

*

 

The maids and servants refuse to bring Robb Stark fresh water and bandages. They’re too afraid, too resentful, too angry. Her mother doesn’t pressure them, just presses her lips together and remains silent. She ignores the threats of the Northerners, lets them root out the ointments and creams they need on their own.

“Let the boy die from his wounds,” she says. “He is not our king.”

Jeyne knows it’s foolish to disobey her mother, knows it’s wrong to aid the enemy even as she bids a servant to tell Robb’s men to bring him to her room. She sets about gathering up the bandages and ointments her mother has hidden while she waits, determined to do the right thing even if her mother forbids it.

Robb’s guards eye her warily, but bring him to her bed without comment. 

It’s the first time she’s seen him and she’s suddenly struck by how young he is, that he’s barely a year older than her. 

“Someone fetch me a basin of water,” she says, and her voice only has the smallest of tremors. “I need to bring his fever down.”

Robb’s skin is hot with fever, his auburn hair sweaty where it sticks to his forehead, and he moans softly when she reaches out to brush a strand from his face. He looks at her in confusion, blinks at her with glassy eyes and murmurs, “Sansa?” 

“No, I’m Jeyne,” she says kindly. The water she requested is placed by her side and she dips a rag into the water, wrings out the excess liquid before she brings it up to dab away the sweat on Robb’s face. 

He lets out a small, incoherent mumble as he slumps back against the sheets and pillows, his eyes flickering closed.

And oh, _oh_ , she had not expected Robb Stark to be so young, so handsome, to have hair the color of fire and eyes the color of a summer sky. She runs a hand down the side of his face and wonders how such a boy came to be a king. 

 

*

 

His fever wanes over the next two days. On the third morning, Robb is able to sit up on his own, and he watches her with curious, shy eyes as she awkwardly stands in the entrance to the room. She doesn’t know what to do with her hands, so she twists a strip of bandages between her fingers, works at them until they’re so ruined they’ll never be of use to anyone.

“I’m glad you’re well again, Your Grace,” she says. 

The corner of his mouth twitches in amusement, and she feels her cheeks heat with embarrassment. 

“Thank you, my lady,” he says quietly. And then, even softer, so soft she almost misses it, he thanks her again. This time he says her name.

(Later, after the sun has set and she’s crawled into the comfort of her temporary bed, she’s still not sure whether it’s the low timbre of his voice or the fact that he remembers her name that makes her tremble with delight and desire.)

 

*

 

She finds herself drawn to him, makes excuses to visit him for more than just changing his bandages. He’s a good patient and even better company. Robb is sweet and kind, asks after her family as he tells her about his own. He loves them dearly, and she smiles when he tells her of Arya and Bran and Rickon. His voice grows quiet when she asks after his mother, when she avoids the topic of his father.

He shares the most about Jon and Sansa, grins widely when he talks of his brother, reserves a gentler smile when he talks about his sister.

“I miss them,” he says, his expression wistful. He stares into the distance, thinking of some memory she’ll never be privy to. She doesn’t have the heart to inquire after it, knows it’s not her place to ask anyway. “Sometimes I wonder if they’ll look the same the next time I see them.”

His muscles are tense beneath her hands, and her hands falter and still as she wraps a new bandage around his chest and shoulder. 

“You’ll see them again,” she promises. (She thinks of her father who she hasn’t seen for at least a year, and tries not to weep.)

He sighs, and she’s close enough that his breath tickles her hair, the skin on her cheek. She shivers, rubs a hand along her arm and refuses to look him in the eye.

“They would like you, I think,” he says. He places a hand underneath her chin, draws her face up and studies her with an intensity that makes her flinch. “I think you’d like them, as well.”

Robb smiles at her then, soft and shy and bright, and something sharp and anxious flutters near her heart, makes her breath catch and a blush spread across her cheeks. 

 

*

 

(She was eleven when she first fell in love.

He was the son of a visiting lord, a boy around her own age with hair the color of gold and a smile that makes something warm twist deep in her gut. She had flushed whenever he had glanced at her, felt her heartbeat quicken whenever he had laughed. She was never brave enough to approach him, always settled for watching him from afar. 

She dreamt of him long after he had gone. For weeks her dreams were of nothing but betrothals and marriages, love songs and wedding cloaks. When she’d confessed as much to her mother, she’d smiled thinly, but her father had laughed and kissed her cheek and promised to make her a good match when she came of age.)

 

*

 

She dreams of him.

Dreams of a boy with auburn hair and kind blue eyes who takes her hand and shows her a castle built in a foreign land, surrounded by lush green hills and trees with leaves the color of blood. Dreams of a king who smiles at her with love in his eyes, who kisses her beneath the sun and moon and rain and snow.

(And when she wakes, she presses her fingers against her lips and swears she can taste the memory of his kiss, can feel the memory of his touch on her skin.) 

 

*

 

“You’re being foolish,” her mother says. “He’s your enemy. He took your father captive. Or had you forgotten?”

“He means me no harm,” she replies. She leaves before her mother can reply, before her mother can remind her that gentle, romantic hearts have no place on the battlefield.

 

*

 

There’s an old song she likes, one about lovers as different as the moon and sun, lovers who are torn apart but who find other in the end. She thinks about it when she visits Robb, when she looks at the way his hair curls over his forehead, the way his muscles stretch when he moves. When she watches the smile that crosses his face when he talks of his brothers and sisters.

Sometimes, she lets her fingers linger when she changes his bandages. Skims them across the wound that still oozes dark blood against pale skin. Bites her lip when he flinches at her touch, when he looks up at her with a gaze half confused, half longing. His own fingers linger against her wrist or cheek, dance across her pulsepoint or the curve of her jaw. 

_We’re not so different from that song_ , she wants to say. _You can be the winter moon and I’ll be your summer sun._

 

*

 

(When she was younger, she had dreamed of nothing but falling in love. Had eagerly waited for the day she would wed before the gods in the sept.

She finally bled at thirteen, was promptly told that a suitable match would be made for her, that her father would find her a good husband. 

Except her father tried to make one match and then another, and by the third failed attempt her dreams of marriage and love began to burn and fade and feel like a shameful memory of childhood.)

 

*

 

The war seems far away sometimes. She has a king in her bedchamber, an army in her home, and yet somehow the war has faded away to nothing more than half formed sentences on pieces of old parchment. But then something will remind her that she’s a prisoner in her own home, that there are men outside the castle walls who aren’t as kind as the ones within. 

It takes a raven bearing words as dark as its wings to remind her that a war is still brewing across the land.

The raven comes in the evening. The message reaches Robb within the hour, brought to him by a man whose face is lined with grief and dismay. Jeyne knows without reading the words that something is wrong, knows when she sees Robb crush the parchment in his hand and hears him choke back a sob.

“My brothers,” he says, voice tight. “Bran and little Rickon.”

He looks as though he doesn’t know whether to cry or rage. He sits up in the bed, reaches for his long discarded tunic and struggles to pull it on. “I need to ride north. I need….I can’t believe…I’ll _kill_ Theon.”

Jeyne doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but she sees the way he struggles to move, the way his wound opens underneath the bandage. “You’ll injure yourself further,” she says. She reaches out to help him, but he bats away her hands in anger.

“I don’t care,” he snaps. His face falls a moment later, the anger slipping away into distress and anguish. His hands shake where they clutch the ends of his tunic, his knuckles white as he grips the fabric in his hands. “They were my brothers. They were _innocent_. I trusted Theon and he killed my brothers and burnt my castle to the ground. I _trusted_ him!”

Jeyne takes his hands in hers, gently uncurls his fingers from the material of his tunic. “I’m sorry. Truly, I am.”

His eyes are full of tears when he looks at her. She brushes one away, blinks in surprise when he leans into her touch, when he brings a hand up to cover hers. 

“I don’t know what to do anymore,” he says, and he sounds so miserable, so distraught that Jeyne curls a hand around his neck without thinking, lets her fingers tangle in the hairs at the base of his neck.

“It’ll be alright,” she says. They both know it’s a lie, but she soothes him anyway, offers the little comfort she has at her disposal.

She shivers when he leans forward, burying his face in her neck, his tears are cool against her skin. She lets him cry, runs her hand through his hair as she does her best to console him.

He eventually pulls away, and her name is a faint murmur on his lips, the only warning she has before he kisses her. It takes her by surprise, takes her a moment to respond in kind. The kiss is hesitant and awkward and not at all what she expected her first kiss to be like. Robb brings one hand up to cup her face, places the other on her hip, his fingers warm where they rub against the fabric of her dress. 

“Please,” he whispers. He kisses her again, and it’s with a frenzied desperation that makes something inside her ache. 

He slides his hand down to her neck, lets the pads of his fingers trail across her collarbone. He’s warm and strong and sturdy beneath her hands, and she swears she can hear the beating of his heart as he presses against her.

“Please,” he repeats. “Jeyne, _please_.”

She knows what he’s asking. Knows that it’s a bad idea even though her heart is screaming at her to give him this one thing. 

_He’ll be gone in the morning_ , she thinks. _You won’t see him again. You can be brave enough to give him this. No one will have to know._

“Yes,” she says. Her voice sounds strong and sure, and it surprises her, makes her wonder if she made up her mind long ago.

 

*

 

It hurts at first, and she cries out, bites down on her lip as the tears fall down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Robb says, reaching up to brush her tears away. His shoulder has prevented him from moving too much, so she had gathered up her courage and straddled his hips. Had lowered herself on top of him until her pain had turned to the first stirrings of pleasure.

She feels exposed and vulnerable like this, hides behind a curtain of her hair as she moves on top of him. It’s awkward and strange, and she feels embarrassed at the moans she releases, at the way Robb thrusts and groans. Robb’s hands are like brands upon her hips and she fears she’ll have marks there in the morning.

He looks up at her with something bordering on surprise and affection, and when he spills inside of her, he gasps her name as if she’s the only thing keeping him alive right now.

 

*

 

She wakes with Robb’s arm wrapped around her middle, with his chest a solid presence against her back. She lies there in the sunlight, wars with herself as she feels guilty for her lost virginity, for the shame it will inevitably bring to her and her family.

Robb stirs not long after, apologies as soon as he realizes she’s awake. He rolls away from her, sits up against the bedposts and looks at her with such unhappiness.

“I don’t know what I would’ve done without you last night,” he says, tone miserable. “But it was wrong of me to dishonor you in such a manner.”

“You were not the only one to make the decision,” she says. She clutches the sheets against her chest, suddenly ashamed of her nudity, of the way her thighs ache, of the blood she knows is on the bed sheets.

“Even so, the fault’s mine,” Robb says. He stares at her for a long time, something unreadable flickering over his face. Before she can ask what’s wrong, he draws her in for a kiss, leans his forehead against hers afterwards.

His next words all but steal the breath from her lungs.

“Would you like to see the North?” he asks, and while his voice is hesitant and unsure, there’s a sliver of pride and steel hidden beneath his words.

She stares at him until he gets impatient and shifts, bringing a hand up to card through her curls.

“I will not leave you here, Jeyne.” He says her name with the same trace of affection from last night, takes her hands in his and looks at her with an expression that’s scared and resolute all at once. “Jeyne Westerling, will you do me the honor of being my queen?”

She’s too surprised to do more than nod, to let him kiss her again and again until she’s breathless and boneless against him.

 

*

 

(Jeyne is seven when she first entertains the idea of falling in love, eleven when she feels the first tendrils of love and lust, thirteen when she becomes a woman.

She is fifteen when she marries a king of winter and ice who makes her a crown to match his own, who promises to show her his ancestral home once the war is done. And she is fifteen when she marries that same boy who smiles at her with love in his eyes and touches her as though she’s the most precious thing in the world.)


End file.
